Tricky Dick: The Secret Life of Lord Voldemort
by Samuel L. Mothafuggin Frollo
Summary: I am Tom Marvolo Riddle.Some address me as “Master.” Many call me the great Malefic, the bane of all his enemies. The paragon of a pureblood, the protectorate of Parseltongue. Yet others call me a total dick. But most call me...Mr. Marvol.


Author's Note: Words fail me. This is, by far, the worst thing I have ever written. And for that, it has earned a special place in my heart. (insert generic disclaimer about the characters here)

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle. However, you may call me…Lord Voldemort. Some address me as "Master." Many call me the great Malefic, the bane of all his enemies. The paragon of a pureblood, the protectorate of Parseltongue. Yet others call me a total dick. And some even refer to me as…Tommy. Or even Tommy the Dick. Or even…Mr. Marvol.

It matters little what title you refer to me by. Although I am less fond of a few of those titles, they do not diminish the vast scope of my power. I have struggled, strived, for decades on end to achieve my current aptitude. Yeesssss…all those who oppose me fall at my feet. Although whether it's because of my power or, as Wormtail claims, it's because my feet are as odorous as my heart is vile, and to unleash them is slightly like unleashing Richard Simmons on John Goodman. I really must force him to massage my feet more often. A fitting price for insolence.

Dear mariliths, I must really stop entertaining myself with this filthily Muggle TV. Whatever would my faithful followers think? Oooh, the seductive lure of the Friends theme. Enchanting me to sin, that insidious siren's spell. Haunting me in my dreams. Turning my fantasies of having that Potter boy begging for mercy into nightmares of being hunted down by Jennifer Aniston dressed as Dumbledore.

You see, the boy and I have something of…a link, if you will. A bond foretold by prophecy. I first became fully aware of it when that silver cord stretched between our wands like saliva dangling from a prostitute's lips. I am the only one who can kill him. He is the only who can kill me. Theoretically, I could be amusing myself by jumping off the tallest tower over and over again right now, but unfortunately Wormtail has to be a whiny little bitch.

"It's not proper!" he cries. "Not proper at all for a wizard of your caliber!" Fantastic. Now I am receiving advice from men who enjoy sleeping in little boys' beds. Not only that, sleepwalking into my bed and panting, "Little Ron, little Ron, with hair so fiery red. Ooh, I'm sneaking. Oooh, I'm stalking. I'm crawling right into your little bed." Come now, even I have my limits. I'd kill him, save for the fact he administers utterly drool-worthy foot massages.

And, he is essential to my plan. A plan, you ask? Why yes, a plan to finally rid myself of that Potter insect once and for all! A metaphorical can of Raid, if you will. A metaphorical piece of toilet paper through which to lift the metaphoric insect and flush him down the highly metaphorical toilet. A plan so brilliant and clever, it would make Merlin weep. Nothing can stop me this time, especially not those meddling kids!

And so…

It was with great trepidation that the wizard known as Wormtail approached the residence upon the monotonous suburbia that was Privet Drive. But he could not falter now. For if he failed this task, there were enormous toenails to slowly clip. Corns to clean and lather. Little piggies that needed to go to the market. No.

The usually softened cast of his face steeled into grim determination, like Instant Reese's Peanut Butter Shell ice cream syrup on a cold day. His jaw set. It was time for the rat to redeem himself, bear himself upon the crest of honor for his lord. And earn himself the envy of his fellow Death Eaters. And get back at that Ron bitch for always hogging the covers. No, he could not afford to fail.

Dressed as a wealthy Muggle businessman, he advanced upon the doorbell and penetrated the circle that held that precious little button viciously. The next moment, he was rewarded with the sound of a resounding ring. And what luck awaited him! For in the next moment, a youth with green eyes the exact shade of a pickle-brined dead frog threw open the door. Those orbs the color of lime Kool-Aid went wide with startled recognition. Yes, it was time to administer the Plan. The most complex, ingenious, intricate, and compelling plan the evil Lord Voldemort or, as Wormtail secretly called him, Tricky Dick had formulated to date.

Wormtail pulled a gun out of his robe and shot him in the head. Then skipped away laughing. Somewhere in the background, the Pulp Fiction theme played.


End file.
